


(with a spin leap alive we’re alive)

by unfinishedidea



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: picfor1000, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedidea/pseuds/unfinishedidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like everything else that’s ridiculous about his life, it’s Tony’s fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(with a spin leap alive we’re alive)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://picfor1000.livejournal.com/profile)[**picfor1000**](http://picfor1000.livejournal.com/). Prompt photo [here](http://anonym.to/?http://www.flickr.com/photos/stuckincustoms/1679648492/lightbox/). Thanks as always to the fabulous lynnmonster for betaing (and beer advice *g*). Title is from "if everything happens that can't be done" by e.e. cummings.

“So this is your secret hideout?” Coulson says. He picks his way carefully across the roof shingles, eyeing the precariously balanced pyramid of empty beer cans, and sits down next to Clint. Clint has a cigarette dangling from his left hand and an open can of Tecate by his foot. 

“You know that stuff will eventually kill you,” Coulson says. 

“The beer or the cigarettes?” Coulson’s mouth quirks and Clint shrugs. “Odds are something else will first.” 

“Mind if I have one?” Coulson asks, nodding towards the cooler.

Clint looks at him in surprise, then fishes a can out of the melting ice. He offers it to Coulson and their fingers brush when Coulson reaches for it. Coulson jerks his hand back like he’s been burned. He immediately looks like he regrets it. 

Fuck. It’s just as bad as Clint knew it would be. 

Clint suppresses a sigh and stubs the cigarette into an empty beer can.

Like everything else that’s ridiculous about his life, it’s Tony’s fault.

* * *

Everyone’s a little punchy from the week of hell, and a lot punchy from the copious and ever-flowing alcohol at the party that Tony throws to celebrate the end of said week of hell. People are tottering around pretending to be more sober than they actually are. Clint’s pleasantly buzzed and warm, a soft thrum of horniness curling at the base of his spine. 

Darcy and Tony are faced off in an epic drinking game of Battleship shots and Clint thinks Tony’s actually _built a table_ expressly for that purpose. Thor is standing to the side, watching them in clear bemusement. “I still don’t understand,” Clint hears him say, “why are the glasses so small in stature?” Clint shakes his head and heads towards the kitchen. 

He sees Coulson by a punch bowl—which is filled with a terrifyingly phosphorescent blue cocktail that’s _actually glowing_ —talking with Pepper. Coulson’s taken off his jacket and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. It makes Clint blink rapidly in case his drunken eyes are deceiving him, but no, Coulson’s still standing there, weirdly underdressed. He’s thinking about joining them when he sees Coulson smile at Pepper, open and unguarded like he never is with Clint, and it’s so stupid, but it makes his stomach churn. Coulson sees him and tries to catch his eye as he turns to leave, but he pretends not to notice. 

Coulson finds him later on the balcony, leaning against the railing. 

“Hiding?” Coulson asks.

“Just getting some air,” Clint says. “Have a nice chat with Pepper?” He winces internally.

“Ms. Potts and I were just discussing the similar difficulties we experienced dealing with our respective—charges,” Coulson says. 

“We’re not five,” Clint says. Not sulkily. He can feel Coulson looking at him, considering. 

“No, you’re not,” Coulson finally concedes, voice soft.

Clint turns, and Coulson’s standing very close to him, Clint realizes, in his personal space instead of the precise polite three feet away. Coulson’s eyes are dark. 

_Oh, this is so very bad_ , Clint thinks.

His mouth is dry and his heart is pounding: he’s standing on the precipice of a very tall cliff about to do something incredibly reckless and monumentally stupid. 

He’s stunned when it’s Coulson who takes the first leap, brushing his fingers against Clint’s arm. It’s just the briefest glance of a touch, but it sparks a wildfire in Clint, so quickly that Clint can’t help inhaling in surprise. 

The kiss is messy, wet, desperate. It’s nothing like he’d imagined. It takes his breath away. 

Coulson rests his hands on Clint’s hips, slips his fingers under Clint’s button-down to caress his skin, and Clint’s hard before he even has time to exhale. Coulson pushes his leg between Clint’s, presses up a little, and Clint moans low in his throat, surprised. The noise makes Coulson jolt back. 

They’re both breathing heavily. Clint can see the moment Coulson’s brain catches up with what’s going on; it’s like he’s been doused in ice cold water. 

“Sorry, I—” Coulson breaks off, and walks briskly away, swaying only a little.

Well, shit.

* * *

Coulson turns the beer can around in his hands, doesn’t open it. “This is a terrible idea, you know.” 

“Listen, there’s obviously—something here,” Clint says, waving at the space between them, “and ignoring it hasn’t gotten us anywhere. The best thing to do would be to accept it and adapt.”

“You don’t think that would exacerbate the situation?” Coulson asks, dry. 

“I can do this without getting emotionally involved,” Clint lies.

Coulson looks at him. “I’m not going to even dignify that with the rebuttal it so obviously deserves, and I’m going to pretend you don’t think I’m that unobservant.”

Clint scowls at the roof. 

After a moment, Coulson says, “There isn’t room for me to be selfish.”

“There isn’t time for you not to be,” Clint snaps back. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on the verge of dying in catastrophic and horrifically weird ways on almost a daily basis.” 

Coulson doesn’t say anything, cracks the can open and takes a surprisingly large swallow. He grimaces and sets the can down. 

“This is still a terrible idea,” Coulson says. 

“Did you expect anything less with me?” 

Coulson huffs a laugh. “No, I suppose not.” Clint threads his fingers through Coulson’s and tugs Coulson in for a kiss; he’s met with a brief moment of resistance before Coulson relents.

“I’m not doing this on the roof,” Coulson says into his mouth. 

“Damn, I thought I’d finally be able to cross that off my bucket list,” Clint says as he pulls back. 

“Are you saying that you haven’t had sex on a roof before?” Coulson asks, eyebrow arched in perfect skepticism. 

“Are you saying that you don’t know, Agent Coulson?” 

“I’m not sure why you’re surprised, Agent Barton. I only know what’s in your file.” 

Clint laughs. “Nice try.” Coulson smiles, eyes crinkling, and Clint can’t help but grin back. They sit there talking until the sun sets.


End file.
